


Salvation

by ishafel



Series: From Great Moments in Death Eater History, Vol. I, 1970-81 [2]
Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-03-11
Updated: 2011-03-11
Packaged: 2017-10-16 21:04:26
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,686
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/169335
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ishafel/pseuds/ishafel
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Peter makes a choice.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Salvation

Peter has a new haircut, which just might be the worst haircut known to man. He sits in the last pew and kicks the back of the row before him, sulky and hot and bored. He is bored and he hates St. Godric's as much as he does his father. His father, the vicar, is far too busy to notice Peter hating him; he's fussing about the roof, whinging to the tall red-headed man from the Ministry, pointing out the cracks in the plaster, the damp spots on the marble floor, the mildew on the walls. He loves the church more than his son or even his God.

Peter's been told to wait because his father wants to talk to him, too. He's probably gotten Peter's end-of-term report, full of inadequates and does not work up to potentials, and bad conduct marks, which Peter will blame on James. He doesn't dislike school exactly but he doesn't really see the point, either. He isn't going to be a professor or go to seminary like his father.

In Peter's pocket is a letter from Sirius, perhaps the least matey of all of his friends. He and Sirius have almost nothing in common and during school they hardly talk at all. But unlike James and Remus they both hate their fathers, and they write each other a lot in the summers. And this letter is a long one, hard to read the way everything Sirius writes is, full of crossouts and black marks.

There's one word Peter can't quite make out, the word that according to Sirius you aren't supposed to say. He sounds it out to himself, but silently, and he never looks away from the pews in front of him. Voldemort. The word you aren't supposed to say is Voldemort. If Sirius says it it must be true, because there is nothing the Black family doesn't know about Dark Magic.

Very, very quietly, so that his father won't hear, Peter takes out the letter and his wand. He touches the tip of the wand to Sirius's scrawled words and mutters, "Incendio." Restrictions on underage magic don't apply on holy ground. The letter turns to ash in his palm. Peter's good at this charm, although he isn't at most of them. "Voldemort," he whispers to himself, fanning away the tiny plume of smoke. It has a certain ring to it, brave and barbaric at once.

James is going to be married to Lily, and Remus has passed the most NEWTs of anyone, and Sirius got accepted into Auror training. Peter is being left with nothing. He's seventeen, and he sits in the last pew and sulks while he waits for his father to finish complaining about the lead content in the stained glass windows and let the red-haired man from the Ministry leave. He's not afraid of what his father will say, because he's heard it every year since he was eleven.

The thing that worries him now is the card in his pocket. It's printed on stiff, heavy parchment, the kind Muggles use because they don't send things by owl. The words don't move at all, which is why the Muggles call it stationary. It's James and Lily's wedding invitation, with a note from Lily on the inside.

She's written to him-"Dear Peter, Please say you'll come. I'm sorrier than I can tell you that things have worked out this way. I want for all of us to be friends, and I know Jamie wants that too. Anyway, it will be worth it to see Sirius in a morning coat and giving a speech-he's best man, you know. All my love, Lily."

James was Peter's friend first, but now nobody remembers that. James will have Lily, and Sirius will have his work, and Remus will have all the NEWTs anyone could ever want. And Lily will have James, all to herself. He doesn't burn the invitation, the way he used to burn Sirius's letters; he needs to be able to touch it, to remember it's real.

Peter sits through his father's lecture, thinking of suicide and the heat and nothing in particular. He already knows what his punishment will be; his father is fond of leaving him alone in the church for the night, to consider his sins. It is not something that he is afraid of, not anymore.

The only thing he is afraid of would come, equally, in dark or light; this name that has no boundaries and no masters. Peter has been close to it since he was thirteen, but now he hates his life more than he fears what will come. When his father is gone he lights a dozen of the thick white candles. "Voldemort," he says, and hears the word ringing in the emptiness of the church. It sounds the way a dream should.

He says it a second time, savoring the sound of it, and a third, to make it come true. All the most powerful spells rely on repetition, and why should this one be any different? He has no more gift for Summoning Spells than he ever did, but this one works even better than he'd hoped.

The floor is marble, black veined with gray and with white, smooth and cold beneath his cheek, against the palms of his hands. If ever there were a time to pray, it is now, and still the words do not come to him. The man at the altar raises his hand to his brow in ironic salute-or perhaps only recognition-to the bleeding Christ and swings round in a flurry of black robes.

The man holding Peter down lets go and moves to stand at the side of his master. "He is not-much-surely, dark prince?"

"Not much at all, my Lucius," Voldemort agrees. "And yet neither were you, once. Leave us, if you will; what I have to say to him had best be said in private, and what better place than this, for a conversion?"

But when Lucius has gone, Voldemort makes it clear that it is not Peter's loyalty that is his first priority. He wants something else from Peter, something more easily won. Peter doesn't understand at first. He's not sure what he expected, but it isn't Voldemort's hands, pressing him cold and small against the floor. It isn't Voldemort bending close to kiss him, the first time he's ever been kissed, supremely gentle and tasting faintly of fire.

It isn't Voldemort saying to him, "I will make you a disciple to be proud of, little one," with a satisfied smile that makes Peter think of James after a particularly good match. He never had been able to say no to James, not until the very end. It was part of why he hated him-them. He fingers the stiff, sharp edges of the invitation in his pocket, and watches Voldemort's long delicate fingers unlace the neck of his shirt, slide free the buttons of his trousers. It seems a great honor that he should trouble to do so by hand when a simple spell would have done as well.

And he knows that is an honor to have Voldemort's hand be the first besides his own to trace its way under the waistband of Peter's pants and pull gently at the stiffening penis in its dense nest. The trouble is, Peter is not sure that this what he wants. It certainly isn't what he meant to want. "Stop," he said, and he heard his voice rise to a squeak. But he didn't want to do this, not on the smooth cold marble, not in the dark, not with Voldemort.

"I don't think so," Voldemort says, as if he's considered it. "No, my Peter, my pet, my traitor, I don't think I will." And his fingers tightened on Peter like a cat's claws, so that Peter gasped and bucked against him. "Don't tell me you don't like that, little one," as his sharpened nails dug into the tender flesh. "All of my Death Eaters find it most pleasant." He did something then, traced something that felt very like the Dark Mark, on a spot just behind Peter's swelling testicles. "Do you think you could stop me? I should like it if you fought. Even my Lucius is not so obliging as to fight me."

Peter did fight him then. He kicked out, hard, again and again, and somehow he always missed. He twisted and felt Voldemort swelling against his thigh. He clawed at Voldemort's eyes, caught him a glancing blow to the chin, and heard Voldemort laugh. And then Voldemort said, "Oh, I do like you, my Peter. You shall be first among my Death Eaters," and something in Peter broke and he stopped fighting and went limp. He was only seventeen, and this was the Dark Lord. Why should he fight him? Who would expect him to?

James and Remus had buggered Snape, not just once, but a half a dozen times. Whenever they'd caught him on his own after prefect meetings. They'd told Peter about it, laughed about how he'd screamed. Peter was determined not to scream. He'd wondered whether Snape had come to like it, had made himself available. Now, as Voldemort forced his way into Peter, into the small dry tight place that had never been touched, Peter knew Snape hadn't. No one could have liked this. Snape had just given up.

But Peter lay under Voldemort and his cock, untouched, leaked. It liked it, even the parts that hurt. It knew what it would mean to be first among the Death Eaters, and to make James and Lily and Sirius and Remus crawl. And he knew that the thing, the awful burning thing that Voldemort had put into him, was going to make him come as he had never come in his life. And he knew that somewhere, in the shadows behind the altar, Lucius Malfoy watched him with angry, predatory eyes. And he was only sorry his father had gone, that he wasn't there to see Peter meet his creator in the flesh.


End file.
